“No, not really. I’m just anxious. Nervous, maybe. I’m not sure how we’ll pull this off.”
She fussed with the lace strap of her nightdress. “Why even bother? Surely, after last night…”
“Last night,” he smiled as he spoke, “You were magnificent. Divine. I knew it would be good, but I did not expect it to be that good. You rocked me, Angelica. I’m still weak-kneed.”
Thank God, because she’d put a great deal of effort into it. If that wasn’t the best orgasm of his life, her pride might never recover.
“We could do it again, you know. Take me as your lover—as your mistress—and you can always have it that good. I’ll do anything you want. Any way.” They could get a flat here in Shrewsbury. Sleep together every night, live off fidget cakes and cider, and do as they pleased.
Captain Neill was silent for a long time. Finally, he fished in his coat pocket, and then placed a cool, tin square into her palm. Angelica ran her fingertips over it. The writing was slightly raised, but she couldn’t make out the words. She turned it over in her hands, puzzled. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
She flipped the lid and pressed her fingers inside. Three rolls. Thin rubber. The texture made her squirm. “What are they?”
“Condoms. Sheaths. For the prevention of pregnancy and disease. They were offered during the war, and I’ve come to rely on them ever since,” he explained. “I bought those yesterday. Point is, I could have worn one with you, yet I chose not to. Since you’ve most likely already fallen pregnant—”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“For your sake, I sincerely hope you aren’t. But, if I’m going to set you up somewhere, pay for your care and a child’s, I’d rather there be some small chance that the baby is mine. Once is all it takes, you know.”
Angelica had not known. Not really. But she still clung to the belief that she could never conceive. Shaking her head, she handed the box of condoms out to him. “I think, for a man, uncertainty would be worse.”
“Either way, the deed is done. And if you are expecting, I shall raise the child as my own. You have my word.” He took the tin from her hand. “If you’re not, then we’ll have both dodged a bullet.”
All these adult concerns were so foreign to her. Angelica missed the days when all she worried about was feeding herself and avoiding the asylum.
When she didn’t say anything, he sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “Isn’t that what you want, Angelica? Or would you rather go home, and take your chances with the first chap who had you?”
His words were cutting, but it was a fair question. “I want to be with you.”
“Good. Because I’ve never had a mistress before.” Captain Neill lovingly stroked her hair. “I’m rather looking forward to it.”
Angelica couldn’t stop herself from leaning into his soft touch. Her previous lover had never been gentle with her, never been kind. He had also never been cruel, and never once made her cry. The man had simply treated their relationship like what it was—mindless copulation. She had needed that then. Her body had craved attention, and her mind needed distraction. Her lover’s arms had been a safe place to find both. But moments like this, in Captain Neill’s arms, made her yearn for something more.
She tried to smile. This was what she’d dreamed of—being with Captain Neill, making love with him. Possibly making babies with him—something she’d never even allowed herself to dream of. Yet, this wasn’t quite what Angelica had in mind on those long, lonely nights when she’d pleasured herself to the thought of him. Or, if she were completely honest, when she had allowed a stranger to pump himself deep inside her, and somehow still felt empty afterward.
She had finally got what she wanted. Why did her heart feel so empty now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Neill family estate was situated near the Welsh border. Angelica thought it seemed very wild, very brave for his ancestors to make their home in such a turbulent area. Centuries ago, secluded border towns had been frequent victims of marauders. Those who settled there—and stayed—were rewarded for protecting the King’s interests, and fighting off Welsh rebels.
Captain Neill told her all about it as they ripped down a winding country road. She’d been terrified of riding with him. It was warm enough to have the top down in the motorcar, but the wind in her face, and the hell-for-leather speed at which he drove, made her sick.
Automobiles before the war were cushioned and comfortable. Slow. Leisurely. Perfect for puttering along a country lane. But his Bentley was big and powerful, and built to be driven hard. Angelica felt certain they would crash at any moment. She gripped her seat and clenched her eyes, bracing herself for an impact that never came.
Without the morphine sickness clouding his judgement, Captain Neill was really a very good driver. Or so he promised her.